Chaste
by MadeiraDarling
Summary: Skwisgaar has been bad, and Charlie decides to punish him, smutty hilarity ensues.  Skwisgaar/Charlie


Chaste

By Madeira

The blonde struts into the office, long hair, long legs, and big ego. He knows he's in trouble, but Charles really never gives him (or any of them) more than a slap on the wrist. After all, there isn't much Charles _can_ do about his behavior. Sure, cutting a set short to go get laid was unprofessional, but he's the fastest guitarist in the world, what's anyone going to do?

Charles looks at him from across the desk, gaze flicking over the Swede, and shakes his head.

"I've tried cutting your allowance, I've tried talking to you, I've tried restricting your privileges, I've tried having Nathan talk to you, you cannot keep distracting klokateers with sex. You caused a plane crash, that's not good already, you caused a plane crash by insisting on giving the pilot oral sex, the _male_ pilot, Skwisgaar, do you have any _idea_ the sort of press that'll get?" he says looking at him sternly.

The Swede shrugs.

"Not'tings I cans does abouts what happends, deys wouldn'ts lets de groupies ons de planes, and _yous knows hows I gets_," he purrs, leaning in close to the CFO, giving him a flirtatious smile. Charles gives him a look.

"I've tried everything, Skwisgaar, remember how we talked about this last time? The time when half the female staff ended up on maternity leave?"

Skwisgaar pauses for a moment, trying to remember back, then a look of horror appears.

"Yous wouldn'ts, yous won'ts, yous can'ts does dat! It's cruels and unusuals punsishment" he protests.

"I would, I will, and I can, mister Skwigelf," he says, frankly it had been he who'd instituted the 'no groupies on the plane' policy hoping for an instance just like this.

"Fucks yous," says the Swede, knowing that if he tried to leave the manager would just drag him kicking and screaming back.

"Maybe it'll teach you some self control," says the brunette with a shrug, pulling the chastity belt out of his desk, "undress."

The Swede glares.

"Ands ifs I doesn'ts?"

"Then I get the klokateers and make it two weeks," he said icily.

The Swede sighs and drops his pants, Charles locks him in, and that is the beginning.

Charles teases the Swede, hoping that by the end of the week the blonde will be a wreck, begging to be fucked. He dresses up, sauntering around in stilettos and a short skirt, making sure only Skwisgaar sees, he lets his hair fall forward, hanging to his chin, he loosens his ties, and bends over too much in the guitarist's presence.

Skwisgaar just glares at first, but eventually he's begging on his knees for release, fat tears sliding from those bright blue eyes. Charles loves seeing him like this, so needy, so desperate, falling apart more than he'd ever seen him. His guitar work gets sloppy, and he slips into Swedish when he speaks, the desperation in those eyes is so absolutely, utterly exquisite. Charles can only imagine how good he'll look on his back when he lets him out and fucks him senseless. He makes him do little things for him, suck his cock, dress up, even making the blonde crawl at his side on a leash. By the end the blonde's pride seems broken, following Charles around like a lost puppy, and complying instantly with his wishes.

When the day arrives the blonde is whimpering, shivering by his side. Charles unlocks the belt, but the moment the key turns, something happens. He'd planned on pinning the blonde, and using him like a toy, but he finds himself on his back with well over six feet of Swede looking down on him with hellfire in his eyes. The Swede rips his clothes off, popping buttons and shredding fabric, he snatches the glasses Charles doesn't need and breaks them in half, on hand fisting in his hair, flipping him over, slamming his face against the desk, pouring lube on his cock, and slamming in, no use for prep at this point, all he wants is to get off.

He's animal, completely feral, nails digging into white flesh until he pulls up blood. He wants to rip him to shreds, destroy him, fuck him through that big walnut desk he has.

His fingers fist in chestnut hair, dragging back. Charles sobs, bucking his hips, some part of him, some deep wicked part of him loves this, loves being treated like a dirty whore. He wriggles, turning his head to the side looking up with lust dark eyes, full lips softly parted. The expression on his face just makes the Swede even more desperate to break him. He bites down hard on the brunette's shoulder, marking him, showing him who he belongs to.

"Takes its, fuckings sluts," he growls darkly into the business man's ear. Charles shudders, takes it, lets him. He hates how much he loves this, how easy it is for the blonde to make him tremble with need.

"Yous loves it, doesn'ts yous?" purrs the blonde pausing for a moment, looking at the manager's tear stained face.

"Yes, god, yess," Charles sobs, bucking his hips and quivering on the desk. He thought he'd buried this side of him, the submissive part of himself, deep enough it couldn't worm its way back up, and yet here he was under this feral nordic god, being used like a cheap toy the blonde didn't mind breaking.

Skwisgaar growls, pleased to see the other man, so controlled normally, broken beneath him. Charles is screaming, sobbing, screaming and the world spins like some sadomasochistic merry-go-round and he loves it, god he loves having this wild sex god slamming into him, making it hurt, making him bleed, making him forget what power he usually holds, because for the moment he is nothing but a pretty body to be used, to be fucked, to be broken.

"Says mine names, sluts," demands the blonde, eyes shut and voice rough and vicious.

"Skwisgaar," cries the manager, intoning his name like a mantra, a dirty holy word to be intoned in moments of passion.

Skwisgaar bites into his shoulder, growling. He's aching, close to orgasm, waiting for so long has reduced his usual stamina, but still he resists, wanting to push Charles over the edge first, to show the manager who holds the power for now. He grabs the brunette's cock, stroking roughly, and Charles bucks eagerly into his hand.

It's blissfully painful how much they both need release, Charles's battered body trembles with every slam of the blonde's hips. Tears stain his normally stoic countenance, it hurts, it hurts until his body sings with the ecstasies of pain. It hurts so perfectly, he feels shredded, used, gloriously worthless beneath the other man.

"Skwisgaar," gasps the manager softly, body tremulous, voice shaking, "I'm close."

The blonde takes it as encouragement and slams in harder. "Fuckings stupids sluts, comes for mes," he demands, and Charles comes, sobbing with pleasure, shuddering screaming and rocking up against him.

The other man's tightening body pushes the Swede over the edge, and he comes, thrusting viciously into the manager, scratching, and howling in ecstasy. Pleasure ripping through him, sating the aching need that's tourtured him for a week, he's flying, he's falling, and this is heaven. He gasps the manager's name, before collapsing, content, atop the bleeding brunette.


End file.
